


Watching Over You

by Erratus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Canon, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 02:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21154361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erratus/pseuds/Erratus
Summary: Castiel has always been watching over Dean, keeping him alive. Even if Dean doesn't know it, he's been there.!!Suicidal thoughts/attempt warning!!





	Watching Over You

Mary Winchester was alone when she entered the church. She made sure of her it. Other people might confess to infidelity or abuse at such a late hour. Mary’s sin was so much greater. At the time all she could see was the man she loved dying, and the promise to bring him back. She agreed, but she knew the price was coming due. The demon wanted a child from her. He might not have said as much, but Mary knew. And soon, she would have a child for him. Her baby stirred in her belly, full of life. A healthy pregnancy nearing the end. Normally a joyous time. And John was excited, so excited. But Mary knew there was a price to be paid. She knew that deals with demons never ended well. So she cried for her baby. Into the silence and darkness of the church, for a God she knew wouldn’t save her child. She cried and prayed.

“What's wrong?” An old man was beside her. She jumped but his face was calm and soothing. Perhaps he was hidden away in the bathroom. Perhaps in her desperation for absolution, she missed him. Her life had been quiet for so long, and another lost soul begging for forgiveness wasn’t worrisome to her. Something about the man’s calmness and gentleness made her open up.

“I did something awful,” the woman wept, breaking down into deeper sobs. Putting her sins into words only threw her into deeper turmoil, it seemed. “I sold my baby to a demon,” the words barely escaped between her sobs. The kindly old man cocked his head, staring down at her large belly. For a moment the church was devoid of words. Only Mary’s sobs echoed through the dark, empty building. Even for the religious, such talk is crazy. Demons are hardly more than boogymen to most people, imaginary monsters meant to scare children and give breath to metaphors. But the old man didn’t seem to doubt Mary, not for a second. Instead, he laid a hand on the woman’s stomach.

“I will watch over Dean,” he murmured. The baby kicked from within the womb. Maybe an agreement, maybe a sarcastic retort that he will so love as an adult. Mary’s breath hitched and her lips pressed together. Her hunter’s instinct flooded back to her. She never meet this man before. And while a man out for late night prayers aren’t enough to set off alarm bells, inexplicably knowing the named planned for her child is.

“How did you know his name?” She asked, still trying to decide if she needed to fight, to defend herself and her baby. The old man turned to look at her. Blue eyes seemed to glow within his shadowed face. Headlights passed by, and illuminated the outline of huge, dark wings. 

“I know many things. I am an Angel of the Lord, and I promise you, I will watch over Dean,” his voice was soft and warm, but filled with such strength Mary forgot her sins. His hand still rested on her belly. Dean squirmed within and she rested a hand beside the man’s. His too-blue eyes trailed back down to her belly, swollen and full of life. 

She stared, trying to gauge if it was real. But deep down, to her core, she could feel it. The energy radiating from the old man. Powerful, yet loving. Peaceful, but capable of unimaginable wrath. All the questions she should have asked melted away. Only one remained.

“Will you really?” Mary placed both hands around her belly, rubbing and feeling Dean rest peacefully inside her.

“Yes, I promise you,” he said with full confidence. Mary could feel the honesty and commitment to the words.

“Thank you,” she barely more than mouthed. She cried more, but her tears were of relief. An angle would be looking over her baby. The old man was gone by the time she looked back up.

…..

Dean’s first birthday was only a few weeks away. While there was no sign of demons, not all was well. Dean was running a fever. It was the third night in a row, and his constant wails gave Mary and John very little time for sleep. Their pediatrician gave soothing words and promises that Dean will recover, but the sickness was much too persistent for either parent to relax. 

It was in the wee hours of the morning and Mary could vaguely hear John yelling through the phone. His voice was drowned out by Dean’s screams. She cradled her too-hot baby to her, trying to calm him into sleep. If he could only sleep, his body could heal. They would all be so much better, if only they could sleep.

“Doc is getting some new medicine ready. He’ll have it ready soon, I’m going to go pick it up,” John told her calmly from the doorway. Mary smiled weakly, still pacing with Dean.

“Okay, I’ll run a bath for Dean, try to cool him down,” Mary said. Her voice was quiet from exhaustion, and she doubted John could hear her. Regardless, he strode into the room, kissed her and rubbed Dean’s back before leaving. The Impala roared to life from their driveway shortly after, and Mary set about running a bath for Dean.

She stripped her infant son down and placed him in the far end of the bath rub. He screamed louder at the cool tub, but she knew it was for the best. Her son’s cries still tore at her.

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Daddy’s going to get you some medicine to make you feel better. This bath will help until then,” she cooed at her son. Dean showed no interest in her gentle voice and his cries reached a new high. Mary turned on the tap and delicately adjusted the water until it was lukewarm. Dean’s cries started to quiet as the baby’s exhaustion took over. The lukewarm water just started to lap at his tiny body, but his lungs were too tired to give out more than a whimper at the cold.

Mary hadn’t slept for days, and the relative quiet was too peaceful. She rested a head against the wall and watched the tub slowly fill. Too slowly, and she began to nod off with the tap on. By the time the water started to kiss Dean’s neck, he was too tired to wake his mom. The tap was still going and John wouldn’t be due back for another hour. Dean squirmed, disconcerted in the water, knowing on an instinctive level that it spelled doom.

A flutter of wings reverberated softly through the tiny bathroom. An unfamiliar hand turned the faucet off and opened the drain. Dean’s green’s eye immediately moved to the strange face peering down at him. Another weak cry escaped his lips, but it was far too soft to rouse his mother. The man stood over him, lips twitching like he didn’t know if he should smile or frown.

“So small,” he muttered at the baby, not even a year old. The water retreated but the man didn’t leave. Instead he slowly moved a hand towards the baby. Cautiously, like he had never known that humans took such forms before then. The tips of his fingers landed on Dean’s round cheek. The man grunted, displeased at the baby’s temperature. A tiny trickle of energy flowed from him and within moments Dean started to feel better. His temperature dropped and all signs of illness quickly left. Exhausted, the baby joined his mother in sleep, laying back into the empty tub.

Mary didn’t wake to the sound of wings beating. Instead she woke to John entering the house, and her baby sleeping peacefully in an empty tub. She shuddered in horror, realizing she fell asleep giving her son a bath. She reasoned that she much of dreamt of turning the water on. When she picked up her baby she noticed that he was slightly damp and cool to the touch. He whined briefly at being roused from his sleep, but quickly fell back into rest in his mother’s arms. Happy and healthy, she wrapped her boy in a towel and took him downstairs to meet John. 

“He’s resting?” John asked with half relief, half amazement. Mary nodded. Fear and awe coiled deep in her belly. There were too many questions for her to ignore. Her upbringing of a hunter left her feeling like something supernatural happened in that bathroom. It wasn’t the work of a ghost or vampire or demon though. It left her thinking of the night in the church, and the kindly old man’s promise.

“Yeah, sleeping like the baby he is. His fever broke,” Mary murmured as much to the sleeping baby in her arms as John. Her husband’s face softened and he dropped the bag of medicine.

“I’m glad,” he said, embracing them both.

“Angels are watching over you Dean,” Mary whispered to her son. John smiled, not thinking much of her words. Sweet nothings of a mother to her child, but Mary was no average mother and her words were not hollow. Dean slept. And none of them noticed the figure watching from the darkness outside their house.

…

Mary was nine months pregnant, and exhausted. But Dean was acting up, uncertain about the idea of a baby brother. It was normal for an older child to feel threatened by new babies. That's what all the books and her doctor said. It's easy to lose yourself in the new baby that you forget your other kids.

So, Mary decided to take Dean to the park. Quality mother son time, to remind him of how much she loved him. And Dean was happy, running around the park and playing with other kids his age. She smiled, resting her hand on her belly. Hopefully Dean would find a friend in his baby brother.

In retrospect, she shouldn't have let Dean play so close to the road. He was throwing a ball around with another young boy, chasing it and running from it in a game that only made sense to children. Dean was a smart boy. He knew to stay out of traffic. But Mary overestimated her son.

The ball bounced and escaped into the road. Dean dove after it. He only saw the ball, not the car. Time slowed for Mary and a terror settled into her bones. She rose faster than any nine month pregnant woman had the right to do. It was still far, far too slow. The car sped into Dean and Mary flinched. She expected red and sickening sounds, but there were none. Her heart pounded and gasps escaped her lips. Dean was not there.

"Mommy?" Dean asked softly from behind her. She twirled and looked at her son, complete and whole and safe. She wiped the tears she didn't realize were on her face.

"Dean, baby, how did you get here?" It was impossible. Dean shrugged.

"Cas-til moved me," he explained and Mary was left trying to make sense of it all. The memory of a kindly old man in a church struck her.

"Never do that again sweetie. That was very, very dangerous," she scorned her son and held him tight.

…..

"You shouldn't go there," a girl said from on the swing sets. Dean whipped around, heart thudding. She was blonde and seemed to be a few years older than Dean. Maybe ten. Dean hated girls and he hated big kids. He scowled at her.

"I know what I'm doing. My dad is in there. He's really tough," Dean explained, as though his father's strength somehow made him capable of hunting a windigo at eight years old. "What are you doing here anyway?" The sun was down and there was no adult in sight. The park was small and on the edge of town. Desolate, aside from the strange girl.

Within the neighboring woods, a windigo shrieked. Dean turned to ignore the girl and help his dad. He had a silver knife, one that he saw his dad use before. Not on a windigo, but at eight Dean didn't know better. He disappeared into the trees and the girl sighed. She vanished from the swings, but no one was around to notice.

John stood at the ready with a makeshift flamethrower. The forest was dark and he relied on hearing. He already injured it, but he knew it wouldn't give up. He just needed to wait for the final blow.

He heard messy footsteps fumble through the woods, far too small and clumsy to be his mark. A civilian. He ran towards them. The wendigo screeched and his blood ran cold when he heard Dean's yell.

He told him to stay at the motel, watch Sam. He told him to stay safe. He ran faster and louder but he knew it was hopeless. An injured windigo wouldn't take a prisoner. He'd kill Dean on sight out of principle. Possibly begin eating him if the injury was bad enough.

The forest was silent and John knew he lost a son. Rage and pain filled him as he spotted the large, grey mass that was a windigo on the forest floor.

It was still. Dead. Dean was unscathed beside it, though wide eyes and terrified. No new burns on it, and no one else around.

"What happened?" John asked as he inspected the body. It was undoubtedly dead. But how?

"I don't know. I just-"

"What are you doing here?" John growled, glaring at his son. Dean shrunk down but John didn't relent. "You could have died," he growled over his son's quiet apologies.

John took his son back to the motel and yelled at him until he was a sobbing mess. He spent the rest of the night drinking, trying to piece together what happened. He never saw the little girl standing beside the windigo body, invisible to human eyes, and Dean had forgotten all about her.

…..

Dean was fifteen, and while his dad was teaching him the ropes, he was nowhere ready to face down a vampire on his own. That didn't stop him from swinging his machete at the monster.

"Get out of here Sammy," he demanded of his kid brother. Sam nodded and ran off to find their dad. But their dad was three warehouses away and the vampire was large and fast.

It hissed and hit the machete out of his hand with inhuman speed. Dean swallowed. His chances of survival just plummeted. He tried to ask himself what his dad would do, but then the vampire was on him, smiling.

"Your dad killed my family," it said with dark, angry eyes. "Only fair that he kills his own too," it continued with a brutal smile. It sliced its wrist and pressed it's bleeding flesh against Dean's mouth. Dean gasped and tried to turn away but he could taste rott and metal and knew it was too late. He heard an odd fluttering sound, like a flock of pigeons flying away. The machete was in his hand in the next instant. He didn't know how or why but it was just there. He took his shot and hacked hard against the vampire's neck.

The first strike only went halfway through, but it was enough to send the monster toppling to the side. Dean finished the job with a second blow. He wiped at the blood on his cheeks, knowing the damage was done. He closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to be a scared kid. In that moment he felt a hand brush against forehead and a spark flow through his body.

His eyes snapped open and he stood in a defensive posture, blade at the ready. No one was there. His heart hammered and he returned to wiping the vampire blood away. It was gone, as was the taste in his mouth. When his dad found him, he couldn't manage the words to tell him that he was going to turn. It was just as well because he never did turn.

His dad considered it Dean's first real kill. He bought him his first beer too that night. But Dean never could make sense of the night. Eventually the memory got buried with so many other near deaths. Forgotten.

…..

The whisky didn’t burn going down his throat. Not really anyway, not anymore. The bottle wobbled as Dean lowered it. He struggled to screw the lid back on. Eventually he failed in his task. The bottle dropped to the floor of the cheap motel and the lid followed after it. Amber liquid spilled out and across the beige carpet. Dean didn’t bother to go after it. His eyes never left the ceiling fan above him. 

It spun slowly round and round. Despite being on the highest setting, its speed was too pitiful to cut through the heat. But he expected that. It was a shitty, one star motel, no different than any of the others. The ones he grew up in. Hell, he will probably die in a motel room just like that one. Maybe that exact one, in fact.

Dad was probably dead. It had been weeks, and he hadn’t heard anything. Hunters die on the job all the time. They just disappear, never to be heard from again. What little friends and family they have are left to guess just what happened. That was Dean’s current situation. Guessing how his dad died. Because he wasn’t about to lie to himself that dad was alive.

He turned his head to look at the now largely empty whisky bottle. He could call Sammy, tell him the news. But he doubted that his little brother would care. He ran away to college the first chance he got. What little attention Sam spared to him and dad was usually fighting. But Dean was still happy. Sam escaped the life, the endless motel rooms and looming death. He won’t miss dad and he won’t miss Dean either.

Dean was alone. Hopelessly, painfully alone. He spent his entire life watching over Sammy and following dad’s orders. But Sam doesn’t need him anymore and dad isn’t around to give anymore orders. Dean could keep moving, keep hunting. And eventually he’d die in a shitty motel room, just like that one. Or, he could cut the crap and die in that motel room.

Dean stood, swayed, and moved towards his bag. His boot knocked the whisky bottle across the room. It served him well but he won’t be needing it anymore. Instead he found his gun. A simple pistol, versatile, his first line of defense. He stumbled back onto the bed with it. He could spend whatever years he had left hunting. He probably would die soon anyway, with no backup. A horrible death at the hands of some monster. Or he could die there, that night, quick and painless.

Despite his lack of sobriety, his thumb rubbed the back of the gun smoothly, cocking it. He pondered if there was anything else, any last cheeseburger or fuck he wanted. But no, he simply wanted the leadership and command of his father back. He opened his mouth wide and bit around the metal of the barrel. He would die in that hotel room, that night. Spare himself the miserable, paltry years he would have left hunting alone. 

“Suicide is a sin, Dean,” a soft voice spoke beside him. The mattress shifted as the weight of a pretty young lady, probably about Sam’s age, sat down. Her eyes were a shimmering blue, and her face was carved with disappointment, worry. For a moment, Dean stared at the mysterious woman, gun still in his mouth. Idly he wondered if he even would have to do the deed himself. It seemed like the motel had some kind of baddie lurking around. And he didn’t have the will or sobriety to fight it. A ghost, maybe, though it wasn’t cold.

For a moment frustration painted her face. She grabbed his wrist and easily pulled the gun away herself. Dean blinked in further confusion. She was warm, and strong. He kept his muscles clenched, but she easily maneuvered the gun out of his hand regardless. Not a ghost then. He flipped through his mental encyclopedia of monsters, trying to place this one. Appears out of nowhere, looks human, very physical.

“What’re you?” He slurred, deciding to simply ask the beast. His eyes followed the gun, but when she gripped it tight, it seemed to disappear into mid air. There one second, gone the next. Dean furrowed her brows, trying to decide if she was a magician or to add ‘makes things vanish’ to his list. 

“You should call Sam,” she said, ignoring his question. How did she know about Sam? How did she know his name?

“Sam doesn’t do this shit anymore,” Dean slurred some more. He shouldn’t be talking about Sam. Should have denied he existed. He didn’t want this woman (monster) coming after him next. She sighed, breasts heaving and long, blonde hair flowing over her shoulders. She was very pretty, Dean had to admit. Not that he was about to get down and dirty with a baddie.

“Call him Dean,” her voice was firm. She cupped his cheek, and rubbed a thumb across his face. Dean found himself melting into the contact. Whatever she was, she was warm and soft. “And never do anything like this again,” she chided. Dean cracked an eye open and glared weakly at her. 

“What’s it to you?” He growled. Because this was still a monster, and one that knew way too much about him and his brother.

“I care about you. So does Sam. Call him. Find him,” she again pressed. 

“And why would you care about me?” Dean’s body wobbled uneasily on the bed. He leaned more heavily on her than he expected, and righting himself was challenging with so much booze in him. Still, she didn't even sway under his weight. The woman didn’t answer him, not really. Instead she rested a hand on his head.

“Call Sam tomorrow. Tonight, sleep,” she commanded. Dean was ready to give her hell. Because drunk as he may be, he was still a hunter, she was still a monster, and he was getting sick of her non-answers. But instead, as soon as she commanded it, sleep took him. He was gone to the world by the time his body hit the bed.

The woman sighed, only the slightest signs of frustration gracing her face. Her hand didn’t leave Dean’s head. Instead fingers traced his jawline. She stayed with him for a minute before leaning down a placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Then, with a flutter of wings, she was gone.

….

Dean's body was so, so broken. It hurt Castiel to see. Sam watched his brother's empty body with such horror. Dean's soul wandered the hospital, frustrated and angry. John was elsewhere, healing from his own wounds. Becky Yule was 32, devote, and a suitable host. Castiel wouldn't need her long, it wasn't time to enter Dean's life yet. He was still confined to the shadows.

Azazel damaged Dean's body worse than it ever had been before, but Castiel could still fix him. He stepped towards Dean's wandering soul, intent on collecting him and returning him to his body.

"No. Not this time," a woman's voice stopped him, hand gripping his shoulder. Castiel twisted around to see her, a sister of fate. He frowned, knowing that he could not defy her.

"He'll die," and Dean could not die, not then. Fate had plans for him. Castiel had plans for him.

"No, he won't," Fate assured him. Castiel's gaze moved between Dean's body and soul, broken and dying. Castiel wanted to fix him, as he had always done and always will do. "He'll be okay. You'll meet him when it's time. No more of this," the sister tugged him and he knew this was the end of his watch. He would see Dean again, but next time Dean would also see him.

…..

"I am Castiel, Angel of the Lord," Castiel introduced himself in that dark barn. Castiel had known Dean his entire life, and finally, Dean would know him.

**Author's Note:**

> New to this fandom, but I have a free other ideas brewing. If anyone is willing, I'd love a beta reader.


End file.
